


Pyrrhic Victory

by GuileandGall



Series: A Templar's Promise [5]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen, Grief/Mourning, Loss, failure - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-04
Updated: 2017-08-04
Packaged: 2018-12-11 05:29:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11707776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GuileandGall/pseuds/GuileandGall
Summary: The return from the Fade is not the celebration Rhys would have liked.





	Pyrrhic Victory

**Author's Note:**

> This is a partner piece to Waking Nightmare. It kind of fits in the center of the first section of that fic.

**-1-**

Rhys’ knees crashed against stone, sending a jolt through his legs and a shudder through his body. The crash of shields and clang of swords rang around him, but he paid it no heed, turning back to the rift he stared at the vibrant green. He waited.

One heartbeat. Two. Five.

Finally, he swallowed the acrid lump in his throat and raised his hand. The effort was half-hearted. He hoped, somehow, he’d hear her call out, hear her ask him to wait just one more moment. There was nothing beyond the crackle of the rift, the cold pain in his hand, and the sound of battle around him. With a clap like thunder the rift closed.

The crackling quieted and the lightning faded. A sea of demons fell and dissipated like steam in the breeze; their screeches gave way to the victorious cheers of Wardens.

Despite the rush of victory, a deep hole bored through his chest. He’d left Hawke in the Fade. Guilt hollowed him into a thin shell. She’d come to help and he left her. Still staring at the site where the rift had been, a part of him hoped she would just suddenly appear.

A voice pulled his attention away from the scorched stone; his head snapped to the left. The carnage around them seared into his memory. The ranks of the wardens had been decimated by Corypheus’ ruse and his demons.

“No demon army for Corypheus,” Alistair called out to cheers from the survivors. He hobbled toward the inquisitor with a limp Rhys could not recall having noticed before.

Rhys struggled to find his voice. Eventually, he replied in a quiet tone that only the two of them could hear over the raucousness. “It appears the Divine—or her spirit—was right.”

Alistair nodded. “You know that’s not how they see it, though. They just saw their inquisitor work another miracle.”

“They came out of this alive. As far as I’m concerned, they can tell whatever stories they like,” Rhys spat. He wasn’t a miracle worker. As far as he saw it at that moment, he was a murderer. He’d traded Hawke’s life for his own. He felt like a failure, despite the blow they’d managed to deal.

“I suppose ‘the inquisitor and his warden friend escaped by skin of their teeth’ wouldn’t be as good for morale.”

Light footsteps slapped against the stone as a scout approached them. Rhys sealed his lips into a tight thin line. “Inquisitor, the archdemon flew off as soon as you disappeared. The Venatori magister is unconscious but alive. Cullen thought you might wish to deal with him yourself. As for the wardens, those who weren’t corrupted helped us fight the demons.”

 _Cullen. Oh, Maker_. Rhys couldn’t believe he’d forgotten about him. How could he tell his commander that he left the love of his life in the Fade to deal with a demon that surely spelled her doom? Every muscle in his body tensed up to keep him upright and his face implacable. _What can I say to him?_

Just days earlier Cullen had told Rhys how joining the Inquisition changed his life. He’d said that the good far outweighed the inconveniences. When the inquisitor asked what prompted his opinions, Cullen had said that it was the first time he and Hawke had been allowed to share a life rather than having to deal with quick moments of intersection. _And I_ _’ve taken that from him_ , Rhys thought.

Certainly, Cullen could never find it in his heart to forgive him. Rhys was certain, but he had to know the truth.

“We’ve seen no sign of Hawke since you disappeared over the ledge. We assumed she was with you,” Solas asked, stepping forward from the fray and leaning on his staff. Blood streaked across his tunic in places. Rhys couldn’t recall ever having seen Solas marred by the gore of combat before. One sleeve slit open suggested he hadn’t managed to keep his usual distance from the fighting.

A warden stepped forward holding his side. “We stand ready to help make up for Clarel’s … tragic mistake.”

“Where is the Champion? She is not with us,” Cassandra parroted.

Even she would despise him, Rhys worried. She’d sought Hawke out first to lead the Inquisition, before he stumbled into the wrong room at the wrong moment, like some lost child. And, now, he would only be the man who sacrificed the Champion of Kirkwall.

Rhys’ good eye scanned the faces. They were all staring at him. Wanted answers from him, but he didn’t feel like he had any.

“Where’s Hawke?” Varric asked, pushing his way through the crowd.

Everyone who had accompanied Rhys into the Fade looked away, leaving it to Rhys.

“Where is she?” Varric’s voice bore the same tightness Rhys felt in every fiber of his being.

He chewed on his words a moment and tore his eyes away from Varric. His voice carried through the still crowd reverberating off the stonework. “Hawke sacrificed her life to save us and strike a decisive blow against Corypheus.”

“The Champion is gone,” Cassandra said, her voice somewhere between a question and a statement.

“She gave her life not because she’d sworn an oath or been marked as special, but because someone had to do it,” Rhys told the crowd again.

Varric said nothing, but Rhys noticed him push his way back through the crowd. His heart ached for his friend. Hell, he’d only known Aderyn for a handful of months and came to care for her and call her friend as well. Her loss clearly bored a great hole in the hearts of many.

The warden stepped forward again. “Alistair, you’re the senior surviving Grey Warden. What do we do now?”

Alistair’s gaze turned to Rhys. The inquisitor was almost grateful for the change of topic.

“You stay and do whatever you can to help. Alistair believes that the wardens are worth saving … and I trust him. You’re still vulnerable to Corypheus, and possibly his Venatori, but there are plenty of demons that need killing.”

Solas sighed and shook his head.

“After all that, you give them yet another chance?” Cole questioned more harshly than Rhys could ever recall hearing from the spirit before. “But they hurt people.”

Alistair ignored the outbursts. “While they do that, I’ll report to the wardens at Weisshaupt. Corypheus won’t catch us with our trousers down again.”

The warden looked up at Rhys then bowed. “Thank you, Your Worship. We will not fail you.”

“Good luck, Inquisitor,” Alistair said, stepping forward and clapping Rhys on the shoulder. “Tell Morrigan … ah, just tell here I stood there looking foolish.” He flashed a wry smile at Rhys, who couldn’t find enough joy in his being at the moment to return it in any way.

Cassandra’s hand replaced Alistair’s once the warden walked away to gather his men.

Rhys looked over at her. She didn’t need to say it. He knew what the hollow look in her eyes meant. He shook his head, then changed his mind and nodded. “Please. Cullen likely won’t want speak to me again once I tell him this.”

 

**-2-**

The magister despite his unconscious state had been bound and gagged at Cullen’s insistence and Dorian’s instruction. His men had done good work given how little they had to work with—the makeshift arm spreader and leather gag hadn’t been a challenge, but the silk to bind his hands into fists. Dorian had been forced to sacrifice his own sash for the purpose and did so more than happily, to Cullen’s surprise.

“Some causes are greater than fashion,” the mage had joked with the commander.

The former templar watched over both his men and their charges. His attention turned for a moment when he heard the clamor of cheers behind him.

The approach of the inquisitor was celebrated by the men, but there was something about Rhys’ thin lips and the tight trudging walk that struck Cullen deeply. His eyes moved past Rhys to Cassandra, then sought any trace of the wispy red waves he should find at their sides.

“Cullen,” Rhys said when he reached him.

There was something laced into that single word that confirmed every latent fear Cullen Rutherford had carried since that bright day near a simple stream outside Lothering, where he first fell into those pale blue eyes and drown.

He tried to speak, but no sound issued from his throat. Cullen just shook his head, staring from one face to the other. Then took a step back, shaking his head, as if denying it would change the message. “No.”

“Aderyn sacrificed—”

“No!” the commander yelled in an uncharacteristically undignified way.

He could hear her voice. Just days earlier she’d promised she’d always be there with him. This could not have been what she meant.

“She saved us all.”

Cullen glared at Rhys. Fire burned beneath his skin and threatened to consume him. “Not all,” he growled. With that he turned his back on the inquisitor and walked away. He couldn’t bring himself to speak to the man, not now. If he did, he would regret every word.

Cassandra’s voice and orders to his men barely crested above the sound of his pulse pounding through his ears like a thousand war drums. He stared out over the gulf beyond the walls that the inquisitor, Aderyn, and the others had fallen into when the dragon attacked.

At that moment, he’d thought he lost her. Then they heard the thunderclap of the rift closing and the cheering. He’d let himself hope, which just made the confirmation all the worse.

She’d never broken a promise to him, even the foolish impossible ones. Of course, even he knew that for all her power, she was human. And death didn’t play favorites.

Cullen fought quake in his bones. He could not falter before his men. Taking in a slow, deep breath of the chilled desert night air, he gathered some semblance of his trademark calm and turned to find himself alone on the wall. Cassandra leaned near the top of the stairs. Varric stood opposite her, looking much as shattered as Cullen felt.

The commander felt his eyes sting and his tongue tasted metallic, but with a blink and an exhale, he exerted every ounce of control he could muster over himself and walked toward them. “We should gather the troops and head back to Skyhold before daybreak,” he suggested in a tone so even it surprised even him.

Cassandra nodded and started down the stairs.

“Hey, Curly.”

Cullen stopped, swallowed, and looked at Varric.

“I’m sorry.”

With a tight throat, the commander just nodded at the dwarf and set his hand on Varric’s shoulder. He could feel the muscles there relax for a moment as the facade fell. Cullen’s impression had been right, like himself, Varric was struggling to maintain control of his emotions. He gave the storyteller’s shoulder a squeeze then set off in Cassandra’s wake.

Cullen would grieve later.


End file.
